


The Deal

by le_chat_vilain



Series: Gangs of Middle Earth [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Themes, Gangs of Middle Earth, Gangs of Middle Earth AU, Gen, Modern AU, The Hobbit AU, coarse language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_chat_vilain/pseuds/le_chat_vilain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hobbit story takes place in a city of gangsters, criminals, and corrupt government, where nobody is truly innocent, and even the most pure of heart struggle to stay true as the darkness creeps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deal

_Why on earth did I agree to this?_

 

If Bilbo Baggins ever wrote an autobiography, ‘ _What have I gotten myself into now?’_ would surely be the title. He often wondered where it all went wrong. He had normal parents, a normal family, no strange childhood trauma. Where the crippling kleptomania had originated from he just didn’t know. The road to the north of the city into the back hills was dark and dangerous at this hour, and he found himself wondering why he was doing this after dark instead of during the day like a sane person.

 

_Gangsters don’t do business during the day, Baggins, you idiot, that’s why._

 

He pushed Myrtle the Maroon Morris 1100 into fourth gear as she struggled up the winding road through the range to the overlook. He had stolen Myrtle when he was a teenager, and part of this deal was that he got to keep her, along with a new, legitimate VIN number, and license plates. Bilbo was seriously starting to think he got the raw prawn in this bargain, and perhaps prison might not have been so bad after all.

 

It had been his sticky fingers that had got him into this, there was no beating around the bush about it. He’d gotten cocky, rolled over one jeweler too many. How was he supposed to know those idiot Goblin brothers had worked out to install sodding pressure plates? They were well known to be the biggest morons in Eryn Vorn, well until now. Now that mantle fell to him, the dickhead who was foiled by the Goblins. When the priest appeared he thought he’d been granted some kind of divine intervention, and he jumped at the chance to change his fate.

 

\---

“Hold on now, Elrond, I think Mr. Baggins here may actually be of better use to us outside of the prison walls,” he said to the district attorney in his most diplomatic tone. Father Gandalf Grey was a well known advocate for what he called the ‘lovable ruffians’ of the city. A staunch believer in the inherent goodness of people, whenever he saw a way to keep a young offender like Bilbo out of the prison and actively mending their ways, he would do his best to make it happen.

 

“Alright, Father, I’ll bite. What pray tell, do you think this young man can do for this city exactly?” the DA quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Elrond Gondolin had been the DA for as long as Bilbo could remember, and for the most part he seemed to do a rather good job all things considered. Eryn Vorn was by no means a perfect place, but one had to hand it to the guy, when he got someone locked away, they were there for life; a prospect the young burglar did not fancy for himself.

 

“The Dales.”

 

“The Dales?” Elrond scoffed. “Well now you truly have lost it old man! What could this idiot possibly bring to the table that would help us fix The Dales?”

 

“Councilor, if I may, The Dragon has not been seen in a decade, he is clearly growing complacent. Mr. Baggins is the most accomplished burglar to come through Eryn Vorn in the last fifty years. Look at that list, you can’t tell me that the old casino would be a problem for the likes of him?” Gandalf argued.

 

The Dragon. Bilbo had heard stories of the madman who single handedly hijacked the Erebor Casino from its rightful owners in a rain of fire and insanity. Rumour had it that he had booby trapped the entire area, and as a result the whole district had been evacuated and deserted for nearly twenty years. Chances are that crazy bastard was dead in there. How hard a job could this be?

 

“I’ll do it!” he interjected with enthusiasm. The two men looked at him as though he’d just dropped his trousers and flashed them his balls. If Bilbo had to pin down an exact moment when he started to regret this agreement, that would have been it.

 

“You don’t even know what ‘it’ is yet,” said Gandalf, gob smacked.

 

“Is ‘it’ going to keep me out of prison?” Bilbo asked. “Because look at me, I won’t last a day in that place. One slippery bar of soap and it’ll all be over.”

 

“Son, if you can pull this off, I’ll let you flog all the pretty shiny things in this town you like without ever seeing the inside of a cell.”

 

“Then it’s done. Baggins is our man.”

 

“Yes, well, don’t you think we should tell him what he has just signed himself up for?” asked the DA, a disturbing grin on his face that made Bilbo’s heart begin to beat through his chest.

 

The deal was this: in exchange for a pardon and his freedom - as well as legal ownership of Myrtle - Bilbo Baggins would go to the Sons of Durin and leak the information that Smaug ‘The Dragon’ Gould had been unusually quiet of late. He was then to offer his services as an expert burglar to help them reclaim the Erebor. The idea behind the whole thing being that once the threat of The Dragon was removed and the casino was restored, commerce and tourism would once again pick up in The Dales, and the people squatting in the slums in Lakeside would finally be able to relocate back into their former neighbourhood. The Sons of Durin would have a legal way of making a lucrative profit, and tension between the gangs would be eased.

 

“How hard could it be, right?” Bilbo questioned hopefully, answered with a none too encouraging silence from the priest and the DA.

 

“I shall have the necessary paperwork drawn up then. As of this moment, Bilbo Baggins, you are an official informant and undercover agent for the Eryn Vorn District Attorney’s Office. Welcome aboard,” Elrond extended a hand and Bilbo took and shook it firmly.

\---

 

“The things I do for you, Myrtle,” he muttered to himself, patting his car on the dash as he saw the lights of the saloon looming in the distance. He turned into the parking lot, pulling up next to an immaculate impala that made his little Myrtle look like a child’s toy in comparison. There were several other similar cars parked in the lot, but the place didn’t seem to be overly busy tonight. Then again, it was Tuesday.

 

“Right. You can do this, Baggins, it’s just a tavern. They are just people. Just go in, be confident, and stick to the plan,” he said to himself, eyeing his reflection in the rear view mirror. With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel with a crunch. Walking into the light of the security lamps, he got a good glimpse of the fine establishment known as the Mountainview.

 

Word around town said that it had once been the old country club back in the 1700s, when Eryn Vorn was nothing more than another stop on the side of the national highway. Back then, it had been quite the social hub, that is until a crazy bloke with an axe and a chip on his shoulder decided to murder every man, woman, and child in the joint. That was apparently how the Sons had managed to buy the place so cheap.

 

Whatever its former grandeur may have been, it had experienced quite the fall from grace since. The wood paneled siding clearly had not been touched up in years, and the corrugated iron roof was rusting in several places, patched up only by additional smaller sheets of steel where the corrosion had worn through. On the wrap around verandah, there stood several rough looking characters sharing what was clearly not an ordinary cigarette, and the sound of a live band could be heard echoing out into the darkness. Inhaling deeply again, Bilbo put a hand on the green wooden door, and pushed.

 

Though the band was actually quite good, the atmosphere was as he expected; there was no escaping the tavern’s unique smell of cigarettes, whiskey, and just a hint of blood and vomit. The lights were dim with the exception of those over several full sized billiard tables to his left, and a few retro arcade consoles to his right. The band started up again in on a makeshift stage in the far right corner, as several rather drunk women began their attempts to dance in a way they clearly thought sexy to a rocked up cover of Cab Calloway’s _St James Infirmary Blues._ A few beaten wooden tables stood between him and the bar, where a grizzly  middle aged gentleman in a grey muscle shirt and faded blue jeans stood drying glasses. He was bald headed with a long salt and pepper beard that touched his chest just below his collar bones. Several old style tattoos on his arms completed his overall theme of badassery and Bilbo immediately felt out of place in his black jeans, ratty old cardigan, and well loved red Chuck Taylor’s. He was certainly glad he’d decided against a scarf.

 

Wiping the sweat from his palms on his jeans, he made his way towards the bar, purposely avoiding eye contact with the world’s scariest bartender along the way. He sat on the first stool he came to, and slid a fiver across the bar without looking up from his lap.

 

“Umm…sherry please,” he mumbled, sneaking a glance at the man who was now right in front of him staring at him like he was dressed in drag as Elizabeth bloody Taylor.

 

“You sure you’re in the right pub, laddie?” the bartender questioned in a deep voice and thick Scottish accent. He eyed Bilbo with skepticism as he reached for an incredibly dusty bottle of sherry and poured it into a squeaky clean glass.

 

“This…umm…this is the Mountainview Tavern is it not? I’m actually looking for someone…he supposedly owns this place? Thorin Oakenshield?” Bilbo responded, voice shaky and hands even more so.

 

“Aye, this is his pub. What business do you have with the likes of him though? No offence wee lad, but you don’t exactly look like the kind who come our way.”

 

“Father Grey sent me,” he whispered after looking around furtively and leaning across the bar. Immediately, the stone faced bartender’s demeanor changed, and he grinned at the young thief as though they were old friends.

 

“Well why didn’t you say so!” he exclaimed, and walked over to a door to the left of the racks of various liquor bottles. “Balin! Grey’s lad’s ‘ere!”

 

A smaller, much less intimidating older gentleman popped his head around the doorframe with a warm smile. Bilbo immediately felt at ease when he saw the distinct lack of tattoos, and swept back white hair accompanied by a matching beard. Most comforting of all was his completely non-threatening tweed jumper.

 

“Hello, Mr. Baggins! Come on back ‘ere and let’s have a look at yeh,” Balin said, his accent not quite as thick as his coworker’s, but still clearly from the same region. Bilbo studied their faces closer and came to the conclusion that they must have been relations of some kind; a nose like that had to be a result of shared genetics. Cautiously he made his way behind the bar and to the door, where Balin ushered him into the hallway behind. The bartender shot a look to one of the band members, and they announced they would be taking a break before the guitarist slid over the bar and took over the duties.

 

“Well, you don’t much look a master burglar but then again who am I to judge. Balin Fundinson, this lug’s my brother, Dwalin,” he gestured to his brother before offering a hand to shake. Bilbo took it and gave his best, firm handshake, which judging by the look on Balin’s face failed miserably. He extended his hand to Dwalin who just looked at him with an expression of pity and contempt.

 

“Don’t take it personally, lad, Dwalin doesn’t shake,” he explained. Bilbo nodded awkwardly and withdrew his hand, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Of course someone that tough looking didn’t do hand shakes. Balin led them down the hallway, past the kitchen, past a door labeled ‘basement’ that was clearly the source of the rather suspicious smell and sound of live poultry, and finally into the door at the corridor’s end. Balin knocked six times in a clear pattern, and a muffled voice responded from inside.

 

The door opened up to reveal a large office, complete with poker table, dingy lighting, and interestingly enough, a print of Monet’s Water Lilies. Behind a large antique desk sat a striking man who Bilbo would have placed in his early forties. He wore a v-necked t-shirt, distressed black jeans, and a stern look as he stared off into space in deep contemplation. His shoulder length black hair had several braids though it, and his beard was neatly trimmed in spite of his otherwise rugged appearance. With him were two younger men in their mid to late twenties, both sporting fingerless gloves, hoodies, jeans, and combat boots. Clearly brothers, the older one with the golden blonde hair tied into a bun, was throwing trail mix to the other, getting it everywhere except in his mouth. The younger brother had the same black hair peeking out from underneath his beanie as the older man, though unlike the others, he sported only stubble in place of an immaculate beard.

 

“Thorin, this is Mr. Baggins, Gandalf’s man,” Balin said, nodding for Bilbo to enter the room. So this was the famous Thorin Oakenshield, gambling king of Eryn Vorn. He flitted his gaze to Bilbo, looking him up and down in silence before heaving a sigh and leaning back to rest his feet on his desk.

 

“This guy? He looks like he should be workin’ at fuckin’ Tesco, not breakin’ into casinos,” Thorin responded as he lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. His accent was northern, and his voice deep and gravelly; there was something about it that made Bilbo’s stomach flip. He could understand Thorin’s hesitance, after all it’s not like he actually looked like a criminal. He really did look like a grocer rather than an all too accomplished burglar.

 

“Ah uncle, you know what they say, nobody suspects the butterfly!” said the golden haired brother with a mocking grin on his face, his younger sibling snickering at the remark. Thorin raised his brows and cocked his head.

 

“That’s actually a fair point, Fili.”

 

“Let’s not forget the priest vouched for him,” Balin reminded them all. “Gandalf’s never given you a bung steer now, has he?”

 

“No, you’re right. Okay then Baggins, you’re in,” said Oakenshield, removing his feet from the desk and standing to offer Bilbo his hand. Timidly he shook it and saw Thorin and Balin share a look that was clearly in regards to his poor hand shaking abilities.  “These are my nephews, Fili and Kili, say hi lads.”

 

“Sup?” asked Kili, the younger brother, with a cock of his head, and Fili simply nodded in silence. Bilbo waved at them like an absolute dipshit and the brothers did their best to hide their amusement.

 

“Before we get down to business, you need to know how things work around here. Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” Thorin explained, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray on his desk as he rounded its corner. “Fili and Kili run the…extra curricular activities. Poker, cock fights, that kind of thing. You ‘ave any questions about that, wanna buy in, wanna place a bet, you go to them.”

 

Bilbo nodded silently to show he understood, and followed Thorin into the hallway. They paused at the door to the basement and he punched in a code into an electronic keypad lock embedded in the handle. It beeped and clicked and he pushed it open, revealing a flight of steel stairs. Bilbo had been correct in assuming this was where the chicken smell had originated. As they made their way down the stairs another smell caught in his nose - metal, and the smell of soldering irons and power tools.

 

When they finally reached the bottom of the industrial staircase, they came to another hallway. Concrete, sterile, and harshly lit, he realized that this was so much more than a basement. The Sons of Durin may have looked like an unorganized band of thugs on the surface, but in actuality this would make the Third Reich look like it was run by a band of kindergarteners.

 

“This one here is where we keep the livestock. You don’t wanna go in there,” Thorin explained, pointing at the first door they passed. When Bilbo looked he saw it was labeled as such. They passed several more doors labeled things like “research and development,” “hardware,” and most ominously “interrogation” before stopping at one labeled “armory.” Thorin pushed open the door and Bilbo could not believe his eyes.

 

In the centre of the room was a large work bench with an array of power tools both familiar and unfamiliar, and lining the walls were racks and racks of every kind of firearm one could imagine and then some. Also amongst the weaponry were baseball bats, brass knuckles, Kevlar vests, sling shots, and even several things that looked suspiciously like hand grenades. Everything from pistols to military grade assault rifles, all in their place and labeled accordingly. Sitting at the table were two rather unassuming middle aged fellows, each in flannel shirts, one in overalls wearing a very peculiar hat, and the other in jeans sporting a slicked down Mohawk.

 

“Bifur, Bofur, this is Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf’s man. Bilbo, Bifur and Bofur, our resident gunsmiths,” Thorin said, gesturing to the two men. “As you can see, we’ve been preparing for this moment for a while. Later on Bifur here’ll kit you out accordingly. Gents.” He nodded at Bifur and Bofur and escorted Bilbo out of the room, and they continued down the hall. They passed an open door to an office where a young ginger man sporting a disastrously nineties haircut sat studying a projection of what appeared to be betting odds for the upcoming meet at the the Eryn Vorn Park raceway.

 

“Ori,” called Thorin to the kid, and he turned around to face them with a frazzled smile. Ori was the epitome of hipster nerd, from his Clark Kent style glasses that were thicker than his pinky finger, all the way down his vintage brown oxfords, sans socks of course. A fully buttoned, pale blue paisley shirt tucked into neatly pressed and rolled chinos completed the look, all that was missing was a pocket protector.

 

“This is Bilbo Baggins, the burglar. Ori here helps Balin with the horses. Kid’s a fuckin’ genius. Ain’t never met a race he couldn’t fix,” said Thorin. The patron saint of poindexters waved at them awkwardly and Bilbo nodded briefly before trotting off after his guide who had already started walking off without him. Finally they reached the end of the hall and a door simply labeled “General Purpose.”

 

“This, Mr. Baggins, is your office.” The door swung open and the lights flickered on to reveal what at first simply appeared to be an ordinary office. On closer inspection, it was so much more. The walls appeared to be lined with blueprints, and a series of shelves to one side contained all kinds of gadgets, tools of the trade for any thief worth his salt.

 

“Are these the…blueprints…for the casino?” he stuttered.

 

“Nah, they’re the blueprints for Cinderella’s castle at Disneyworld,” Thorin replied sarcastically. “Of course they’re the fuckin’ casino blueprints you daft git.”

 

Bilbo realized that they were finally alone, and came to the conclusion that he was in fact quite scared of this man. He glanced up at Thorin sheepishly to see the gangster regarding him with the most peculiar of expressions. He was smirking at him. A strange kind of smirk, not one of jest like a person would expect given their exchange just now, but one of fondness and intrigue with a predatory glean. It was a handsome grin if ever one he’d seen, and Bilbo felt the familiar warmth of a blush in his cheeks. After a long and awkward silence, Thorin seemed to snap himself out of whatever thought he was having, and simply turned on his heel and began trudging back towards the stairs.

 

“Shut the door behind you when you’re done, Baggins,” he called over his shoulder. “If you’re as good as the old man says you are, you’ll have a plan by this time tomorrow.”

 

“Right…no pressure…”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: Myrtle the Maroon Morris 1100 was actually my mother's first car back in 1972. When I decided that Bilbo would drive a mini, I naturally named it Myrtle after his pony, and the coincidence was just too brilliant not to give mum's old jalopy a cameo.
> 
> This is a multi-part story inspired by artwork created by tumblr user nuggles! To view the art, go here: http://nuggles.tumblr.com/tagged/gangs%20of%20middle%20earth
> 
> Usual legal disclaimers apply, I don't own the characters etc etc.


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